


I Must Have Left A Thousand Times, But There's A Small Town In My Mind

by QueenTheatrics



Category: Parks and Recreation
Genre: F/M, Road Trip, Soul-Searching, idk what this is, is this good? i do not know, metaphors and long sentences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 00:48:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7596793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenTheatrics/pseuds/QueenTheatrics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>April and Andy go on a road trip. On their journey, they're everyone but themselves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Must Have Left A Thousand Times, But There's A Small Town In My Mind

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a long time ago and it is written without names and is that too edgy???? i don't know i just needed to get it out.
> 
> Title from Small Town Moon by Regina Spektor, a song I'm convinced was written for April Ludgate.

Back home, too many things happen at once, so she takes her husband and her car and a suitcase of black lace and runs as far and as fast as she can. Almost immediately, her phone explodes with phonecalls from her friends. She throws her phone out the car window before they're past the state lines. She hopes she won't regret it.

He says _why are we doing this_ in a voice that is already accepting of whatever answer she gives. She says _I need to be anyone but myself for a while._ He understands her, he always does, because emotions are complicated but his love for her is not, and sometimes all you can do to be better is run away into the inky-black darkness.

That night they lie on the hood of the car as the stars shine like creepy white pinpricks overhead. She looks at him, and he looks at her, and she realises that she has everything she would ever need in this one person beside her.  
He says _maybe we can run forever,_ and she agrees, but never stops to question if they should.

In Memphis, they're siblings, and their dimples and dark eyes sell the story enough for the kindly old woman behind the desk to buy it. Maybe it's an elderly thing, or maybe it's an American thing, or maybe it's something else altogether, but the woman doesn't bat an eyelid when the guy announces _she's my sister_ and then drags her by the hand to the king room they've booked, laughter ringing like bells all the way across the motel. 

They stay there two and a half days, well past checkout time on the third day, but Janet Snakehole answers the door with a lace veil and a grin and says _you see ma'am, we just want to miss the lunchtime rush, we're trying to get to Atlanta for our uncle's funeral and it would just kill to be caught in traffic in this kind of heat, don't you agree?_ It's the eyes that do it, it's always the eyes, and they're given one more hour before they absolutely have to be gone, with a _there's other customers you see dear,_ and _so sorry for your loss_. A thank you and a nod and she closes the door, and then there's a pause before they both burst out laughing. 

In Atlanta, she tells them she's 20, and she gets away with it because the men she's telling are so drunk they couldn't tell a puppy from a tea cosy. They compete for fun - they'll see if her short skirt gets more drinks than his hustling at pool gets cash, they'll see who can come up with the most ridiculous backstory without being caught, and later, when they're tipsy with beer and bad intentions, she'll see if she's pretty enough to be worth a felony, if _hey handsome, buy a gal a drink?_ is enough to pique the interest of the sweaty truckers in plaid who are slumped over the bar. It is, it's always enough, and 9 times out of 10 she can get through a whole evening and spend not a penny, cause she's charmed a drink out of every last drunk in the bar who was fool enough to look into the dark eyes of a girl in glitter and think _yep, this'll be the one_. 

The next day, around noon, they fuck in the backseat by the side of an empty stretch of dusty road, purely because they can and _why the hell not_ is as good an excuse as any. 

_Babe_ , she says at the next motel, cause real names are for people who don't know each other well enough yet. She comes out of the bathroom in a towel with wet hair, steam drenched skin glistening in the luminescent motel light, and her question is never answered because it doesn't need to be asked, because soft kisses in a scummy motel room, reruns of The Simpsons playing tinny in the background, these moments say more than words ever could. 

In Orlando, they're nobody, because Disney is big enough for them to hide themselves in. 

In Salem, she tries to convince a street magician that she is an actual witch, and with every passing moment they have more trouble containing their laughter. It goes on for over ten minutes before the guy gives up and pays her ten dollars to leave him alone. They don't feel guilty when he accuses them of fraud, or when his face drops with disappointment that his own crowd has gone away, because guilt just isn't wired into their systems the same way it is everyone else's. Instead they push past him on their way, calling haughty goodbyes over their shoulders, and spend their hard earned cash on ice cream cones which melt over their hands before they've had a chance to eat them. He says _karma_ , and she says _science_ , but they nevertheless bin the soggy cones before their hands get too sticky and ruin their clothes. 

They visit Springfield for the sheer hell of it and though they have no intention of staying, they do so long enough to sample the questionable eateries and even more questionable hotel service the town has to offer. On the way out of town they stop in at the tiny library, a quaint little building just of the edge of town run by a single aging librarian and her gum popping fifteen year old granddaughter. As they enter, he distracts the ladies at the counter while his better half browses the book selection absently, and when she's sure the staff aren't looking, stuffs several of them in her bag. From across the library she hears _I’m Bert Macklin, FBI_ , followed by a disapproving tut from the old lady, so she grabs a few more books for good measure. Her bag is heavy with loot in a way her heart is not heavy with guilt, and she walks briskly but confidently past the women at the desk, offering them a wink on her way past. She stares, wide eyed and terrifying, at the older woman as she leaves, but she spares the granddaughter a small smile: not one of sympathy, but of understanding.

In New York City, they're lovers, because they don't need to be anything else.

They escape to Washington and find the Lincoln Memorial, and they're insignificant beneath the shadow he casts. They visit the Library of Congress and for hours lose themselves and each other between the pages of books older than the country itself. They have sex between the bookshelves in an empty corner, no one to see them but the creased spines of the books lining the walls. He's on his knees when the guard walks by, and his cheerful whistle catches in his throat when he sees, and before they know it, they're being thrown gracelessly out into the street, but they can't keep the smiles from their faces. 

They fight all the way to Pittsburgh, the passing time marked by bitter shouting and even harsher silences. She cries without making a sound, and the downward turn of her mouth and the tears streaking her face are the only indication that she's at all upset. After several hours of this, enough is finally enough, and he pulls over to the side of a deserted stretch of road, only a rusty signpost announcing the route telling that civilisation has been anywhere near. He kisses the tears from her eyelids and the years from her forehead, and their previous promise of _lets never fight_ is erased in favour of _lets always make up_ , because neither of them likes a promise they can't keep. 

Kansas follows, and really, there's no place like home, but they both know it isn't there, so they leave without even staying the night, the _you are now leaving Kansas_ sign as welcome as the Motel 6 beckoning from the side of the highway three hours later. They give names that aren't their own and book a twin room cause there's nothing else left, and the stern guy behind the desk doesn't look like the most helpful of people. Normally they'd challenge it but it's two in the morning and they just want to sleep and the clock on the wall is ticking in a way that is far too ominous to be innocent, so they suck it up with smiles that don't quite reach their eyes. The air in the room is stale when they enter, like a dusty bear cave, and normally she’d love that but tonight it makes her eyes sting. In the end, they’re too tired to do much more than lay down a blanket from the car and crawl into each other's arms, falling deep into a dreamless sleep. 

Morning comes before it's welcome, with an earnest yellow sunshine that hits their faces in all the wrong ways. She sits up and rubs the sleep-grit from her eyes. His hand finds her knee and squeezes, hard, and she smiles fondly down at him. They’d give nothing more than to sleep the day away, but that guy at reception looked like Norman Bates, and the pair of them have seen _Psycho_ one too many times, so they're out five minutes before checkout time and on the road before Norman can try and wear their flesh like a jacket.

They finally see Mount Rushmore and even she has to admit it's kind of cool, despite the fact that the only President she cares about is Ronald Reagan because he was definitely a lizard in a human skin-suit. He writes a song that consists entirely of the words _faces on a mountain_ sung repeatedly. She starts to sing along after the third run through, to keep herself sane, if nothing else.

In a city of angels, they're anything but, kissing on the beach with the hot sun scorching their backs, ordering room service in the first hotel they stay in that actually offers it, paying a man to fix the car instead of just attempting it themselves by trial and error and YouTube tutorials. They go for fancy dinners in upmarket restaurants, and they gaze with awe at a gold leafed menu filled with exotic dishes, the names of which neither of them can pronounce. They order with bad accents and dazzling smiles, sending the young waiter off - and really, he couldn't have been more than fifteen - with a stumble. She orders wine which tastes like vinegar, and Janet Snakehole takes great delight in sending it back with a huff. When their food comes, they take pictures of it, and then they shovel it down, leaving a hefty tip on their way out. 

They pay with a credit card she stole from an ex, and she knows enough dirty secrets about him that he's not reported her to the police yet. Still, they don't use it often because they don't want to tempt fate, even if the person is 600 miles away and couldn't give a damn. 

From there it’s San Diego, New Mexico, Texas, Arkansas. If they’ve heard of the place, they drive through it, and they stop at every tourist attraction they pass. She sends postcards in every state they visit, choosing the ones with the national parks on them that are always about three dollars more expensive. She never signs her name, so he signs for them both, and they send the postcards off with a lipstick kiss to the back. She knows her friends have been trying to contact her. She just hopes that this is enough.

With every stop on their journey she comes back to herself, and _I need to run_ slowly becomes _I want to go back,_ but the answer is always _not yet, not here, not now._ Then one day she says _turn around,_ and he does, and six hours later they're crossing the state lines. And nothing, nothing feels better than seeing the back of that dumb sign as they enter the town, and she turns her head to look at it over her shoulder. _Welcome to Pawnee,_ it says, as you exit.  
_When you're here, then you're home._

**Author's Note:**

> 


End file.
